


The D.I. and the Punk

by jessaverant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, He's in disguise, No Series 3 spoilers, Post-Reichenbach, Return, Sherlock Minibang, Sherlock's return, punk!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:51:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessaverant/pseuds/jessaverant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D.I. Lestrade has been investigating a growing gang on the outskirts of London, and he set's up a meeting with their unusual "consultant" to try to smooth things over...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The D.I. and the Punk

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the BBC Sherlock Mini-Bang! The character we chose was Lestrade and we went with the teaser trailer of having Lestrade look lost and confused in what appeared to be a car park. We took a few creative liberties and it's short, but hopefully enjoyable! Happy New Year!

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=jqlxj7)

_It was times like these; he wished he carried a gun._

The detective inspector stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, leaning as casually as possible against a doorframe littered with rust spots and faded paint. The building he found himself in was more abandoned than he had previously thought, and maybe coming inside alone _wasn’t_ the best of ideas…

The building was certainly an excellent place for solitude. Old construction building converted into a block of flats that never quite gained traction, most likely because of the desolate surroundings and the poor proximity to anything helpful. Then it was a car park, and somehow it fell into more disrepair as a functional building than an abandoned one. It had since been completely forgotten, and the D.I. just _knew_ it would become the breeding ground for violence.

The building swayed and quaked beneath his feet, and Greg Lestrade felt immediately on his guard. His radio crackled beneath his coat with faded voices from the outskirts.

_“Want back-up somewhere, sir?”_ the voice asked. Lestrade shook his head to no one.

“The note was very clear I was to be in here alone. I’ll be fine,” he added hastily to the breath of impending protest from his junior detective. “I’ve handled worse.”

He clicked the radio off as soon as he heard footsteps echo across the building’s floor, coming from his hard right. Lestrade swallowed and took a step, not _quite_ into the light, but just enough to be seen with the blanket of shadows still enveloping him.

_Why is it always freezing on days such as these,_ Lestrade wondered as the wind tore through his coat. His ears were already stinging. _Where was everyone?_

He checked his watch once more to make sure he was at the allocated time. His mobile chirped beneath his coat and he reached for it, seeing a text from his disgruntled junior detective.

_Someone has just entered the building._

_Is it one of the gang?_ Lestrade typed back, attempting to be casually having a conversation on his phone.

_Think so, had the look. Had a bottle in his back pocket, we’re staying on-guard._

“They wouldn’t torch this building, even if we do know about it,” Lestrade murmured to himself. He glanced up, and saw a bit of tattered cloth hanging down from one of the upper levels. It was a homeless hotel now, and no gang would destroy such a precious commodity for London’s underworld.

“I’ve been waiting,” Lestrade called out, hands in his pockets, as the footsteps suddenly became louder. “I’ve come alone, as you asked.” The footsteps stopped; the wind picked up a piece of tin upstairs and flung it into a wall, creating a sliding-crashing sound. Lestrade had the distinct feeling that only he and this other person were here.

“I am not here to jeopardize your mates,” Lestrade continued, straightening his spine but still standing with his hands tucked safely away. There was another _clink_ of metal and Lestrade wondered if the sounds were coming from his opposition across the room. This particular gang was known for dressing like an 80’s punk rock band with iPhones. “I just want to know where you’ve gotten your… _information_ from.”

_It must be a Moriarty copy,_ Lestrade had insisted when first confronted with this case. _There’s no one else in the world who would consult with criminals._

Another step, another _clink-clink_ of metal-on-metal. Lestrade stood his ground, willing his confidant to come into the light.

A lanky individual swaggered into the open space, and Lestrade suddenly felt he was very much in an old American western. He had a torn hood up over his head, shadowing his face, and was decked out in as much metal as was seemingly physically possible.

“I’ve come to understand you’ve been consulting with someone outside of your gang,” Lestrade mentioned, tilting his head. “I promise there’s no one with me.”

“Do you often ask gangs for information?” the stranger asked, in an accent that wasn’t quite what Lestrade expected.

“If you give them proper incentive, they are more than willing to help, I’ve found,” Lestrade responded, a chill going down his spine. In an instant the man was mere feet from him, somehow crossing the floor with intense speed, and Lestrade fought every muscle in his body to remain still. The man leered over him, towering over six feet, and Lestrade could see the outline of his chin beneath the shadow of his hood.

“When did the Met start consulting with criminals?” the man asked.

“Why is it any of your concern?” Lestrade responded. “We don’t want any trouble, just safety.”

“I see,” the man said as he lifted a white hand and pulled down his hood. A pair of shocking blue eyes stared at the D.I. as Lestrade stepped back, eyes widening, breath knocked out of him as if he’d been punched.

Sherlock Holmes stood before him, dressed in ragged clothes and chains, lips dry and pinched, face gaunt and sunken. Or, at least, someone who greatly resembled him. Lestrade reached out for the doorframe he’d been leaning on before and nearly collapsed into it, his eyes still glued to the ghost before him.

“You were afraid for another Moriarty,” the supposed-Sherlock said, taking another step forward. “I assure you, it’s nothing of the sort.”

“You—” Lestrade mumbled, losing use of his vocal chords. “You—”

“I’ve infiltrated this gang for you, since you clearly couldn’t do it yourself,” Sherlock continued, his tone so familiar that it made Lestrade want to collapse. He spoke as if Lestrade had asked for his help just yesterday. A whirlwind passed through Lestrade, and a pit fell into his stomach as electricity crackled around his muscles and he was suddenly trembling with rage. Whoever this—this Sherlock imposter was—had just made Greg Lestrade _pissed._

“I can’t—” Sherlock-specter continued when the vibrating D.I. swung at him, hitting his solar plexus and causing Sherlock to double over, his words cut short. Lestrade ran forward, grabbing onto Sherlock’s shoulders and forcing his head up, muttering through clenched teeth.

“Who the _hell_ are you?” Lestrade demanded. “Do you think this is a game? Did you think this would be _funny?_ ”

“L-L-Lestrade,” the man stammered, eyes widening to saucers, breathing so heavily his chest heaved, “th-this is not the time—” Lestrade grabbed onto Sherlock’s coat collar, breathing streams of steam from his nose in fury.

“Listen to me,” Lestrade growled, low and fierce, “Do _not_ use a visage of _Sherlock Holmes_ for this—”

“Lestrade, my _God,_ ” the man cried, his voice cracking as his breath returned to him in full. “It’s me, it _is_ Sherlock.” He then bore into Lestrade with _that_ expression, one of faint interest and complete knowledge all at once, his eyebrows arching as Lestrade calmed his own insane breathing.

“You’ve taken up smoking again,” Sherlock continued. “You’ve been trying to quit again as well but you haven’t been careful about it when you do smoke so you allow bits of ashes to get onto your cuff and your collar. But it’s not enough to show a regular habit, so you’ve only taken it up in stress, and you’ve been exceptionally stressed if the new crow’s feet around your bloodshot eyes and the pale color of your complexion are any indication.” Lestrade stared up at the man, _Sherlock,_ his mouth open.

“Shit,” he murmured. “Shit, shit, shit, _Sherlock—”_ They were interrupted by a _crash_ behind Sherlock, causing the erstwhile detective to spin on his heel and cock a pistol all in one smooth flick, barely even flinching.

“I am _dealing with it,_ ” Sherlock snarled, taking a wide-legged stance, his muddied combat boots stamping the ground. Lestrade saw over his shoulder the eyes hiding in the darkness; the gang had snuck up on them.

“Garbage, all of them,” Sherlock murmured as he lowered the pistol. “Intelligent garbage, garbage all the—” The unmistakable shuddering _pop_ of a pistol followed by an old bin tipping from its place upon an old heater was enough to stop Sherlock’s mantra, and he spun around once more, Lestrade stepping to his side.

“I think they’re a bit cross with you,” Lestrade murmured, and Sherlock groaned, twisting his lips into a grimace that was so familiar it made Lestrade want to cry.

Sherlock braced himself and shot back, his left knee buckling a bit as another shot hit near them. Whoever was firing on them wasn’t trying to hit them, but certainly draw their attention.

“Are there other officers outside?” Sherlock barked at Lestrade in a low voice.

“Of course,” Lestrade responded. “Disguised cars and in an ideal location, so I don’t think—”

“You may want this,” Sherlock muttered as he shoved another smaller pistol into Lestrade’s hands. Lestrade jumped at its weight for its size. He didn’t often wield a weapon, although now didn’t see the time to be overwhelmed by one.

“Step into the light,” Sherlock ordered. “Don’t think you can fool me!”

The slapdash pair stood in their half-shadow, Lestrade still trembling in his shoulders but having regained his stance. He was an officer, he was _detective inspector,_ and he knew how to handle himself in any stressful situation.

Someone returning from the dead, however, was a bit more than he’d prepared for. He cocked the pistol and stood his ground.

\--

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do with my ‘sub-par’ set,” Lestrade offered, holding out the package to Sherlock. Sherlock removed his hand from where he was nursing his left eye and accepted the cigarette gratefully, lighting it with the flame Lestrade held out to him. Lestrade watched as Sherlock took what could only be described as a soulful drag, and blew it out as slowly and gracefully as he could.

They were sat on the dirt in the middle of nowhere, leaning against a disguised police car, just a hair’s breadth between them. After a lackluster gun fight and some skillfully placed punches, a number of the lesser members of the gang were cuffed and brought into inner London, although Sherlock assured Lestrade the big players were still at large.

Sherlock had managed to shield his identity from the rest of the Met, acting as an unlikely informant with an infuriating hood.

“Does your ex-wife know about the subtle smoking you indulge in the proximity of the children?” Sherlock asked after a pregnant silence. Lestrade sighed heavily and wanted to just smoke in peace, his heart still pounding, and half-turned to Sherlock.

“No,” he responded. “She’d murder me.”

“Thought so,” Sherlock said, his lips twitching into a corner smile. Another pause, and Lestrade closed his eyes. Somehow all the anxiety he’d been feeling for the last few months had eased for the first time, and Sherlock’s unlikely calm presence was certainly helping.

“Would you like me to continue to act as a part of this gang?” Sherlock asked, his voice softening. “The higher-ups have yet to hear word of my betrayal. They think it is part of a greater plan.”

“Ah. Yes. Well,” Lestrade said, cigarette dangling between his fingers. “So, um—”

“I’ll explain everything later,” Sherlock said, turning that piercing gaze onto Lestrade. “I think there are more important things to be discussing right now.”

“Yes, well—I think this, uh, this will be the first case to go smoothly in a few years, then,” Lestrade offered, a bit awkwardly. Sherlock took another drag, leaning his head back and blew it out into the night.

“I can’t believe you’re still detective inspector,” Sherlock mumbled. Lestrade punched his shoulder a bit harder than either expected in response, and Sherlock whipped his head around to glare.

“I thought you were dead for two years,” Lestrade said, taking another drag. “I think you’ll survive.”

Sherlock smiled.


End file.
